


The Best of Ourselves

by BrosleCub12



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Parent(s), everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:10:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Bilbo sleeps - around him, the world is whizzing by.</i> Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best of Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> **Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort.  
>  **Warnings:** Loss and bereavement; death of parents.  
>  **Disclaimer:** The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings franchise is not mine.  
>  **Author's Note:** Confession time – I’m not really a fan of Tolkien’s work and so have never really been very familiar with the world of Middle Earth. However, I found myself charmed by the film versions of Bilbo and the dwarves and discovered a soft spot for modern AU fics of these characters. So, I decided to give it a go.  
>  I would like to thank my lovely beta-reader, Kizzia, for checking this over for me and making sure it was decent and for her patience. I actually wrote this story over a year ago in December 2014; however, just days after it had been finalised and beta-ed, things happened in my own life that put everything on pause. I thought this morning that, well. New year, new start. So, here we go. 
> 
> (For the avoidance of doubt, * marks present day and ~ marks the recent past).

* * *

 

Bilbo sleeps.

Bilbo sleeps and around him, the world is whizzing by.

*

‘How’s he doing?’ Kili asks, glancing around from the front. In the back, Bofur carefully shifts, Bilbo’s head resting against his thigh (not wearing his seatbelt, but Kili’s a careful driver – more or less) and shrugs.

‘I dunno, really, lad. Conked out soon as we hit the motorway.’ He strokes Bilbo’s hair a bit, pushes some of his curls back from his face; glad his eyes are closed at last. ‘Poor laddy.’ Biting his lip, he nods out the window. ‘Whereabouts are we now?’

‘Ah,’ Kili checks the sat-nav; put on silent so as not to disturb their sleeping colleague, ‘about halfway there. I’ll stop at the next service station.’

~

_Hours before:_

‘He’s asking for me,’ Bilbo murmured finally, staring at the wall opposite as Kili and Fili ran interference with their uncle, who wanted to know why they were all ‘congregating in the staff-room like blockheads when we have deadlines to meet,’ and Ori tried to place a plastic cup of water into his hands. He blinked, hard; his hand made a fist around the cup. It crackled; water spilled at his feet.

*

_Now:_

There’s lights dashing about above his head when his eyes creak open, flying over like really fast aeroplanes all taking off at once (Frodo loves aeroplanes). There’s something soft under his head, a rumbling beneath his back.

Well. Moving. Obviously. He’s uncomfortable, lower down, twisted up like those – those crisp things, pretzels. He doesn’t like pretzels. His feet, always irritatingly huge – and, some joke, extremely hairy – feel strangely bare and when he shifts them, he realises someone’s taken his shoes off. Rude, that. People shouldn’t take your shoes off when you’re sleeping.

He can’t really care though. Not right now.

He feels someone softly stroking his hair and a familiar voice – Bofur – telling him, ‘S’alright, lad. Back to sleep; we’ll be there soon enough.’

He blinks, nods and closes his eyes. They’re moving, and, he remembers, they’re going in the direction he needs to go. Good, then.

~

Breathless; chest suddenly tight. The world, spinning merrily and cruelly off its axis; slipping against the wall, down, down, down. Somewhere next to him, the voice on the phone was still talking, telling him the impossible. Darkness, as his hands found their way over his eyes.

‘Bilbo?’ Ori’s voice – his hand being grasped, pulled away from his face. A sudden crashing on the stairs, a smattering of papers – Bofur, racing down towards them, face creased and worried.

Swallowing. Trying, failing to say something; _anything._ He felt himself retch. 

And somewhere at the back of the mind, behind the whys and the hows – _embarrassment,_ wondering why he couldn’t have got himself somewhere more private first before letting himself completely fall apart. 

*

It’s just past ten when they pull up outside the services – traffic’s been pretty terrible over the last hour – and Kili and Fili both spill out of the car, yawning. Bofur, loyal to a tee – as he has been to Bilbo since he first arrived to work at the Company in the spring - doesn’t budge; instead gives them a fiver and asks for a cheeseburger from MacDonalds. Kili half-heartedly comments that their Mum and Uncle never let them eat there and now’s as good a time as any, really. Fili cracks a small smile, glances over at Bilbo, still curled up against Bofur in the backseat.

‘Shouldn’t we…?’ Kili gestures to him; Fili shakes his head.

‘Nah, let him sleep. He needs it.’

~

‘They were sailing,’ Bilbo had managed, eventually, after they had got him into the staffroom, after they had sat him down, after the emergency stash of brandy had been dug out and a few small drops squeezed gently down his throat. He only vaguely registered the nods and sympathetic murmurs around him; Ori on one side, still grasping his hand, Bofur on the other, rubbing his shoulder, humming gently and Balin, standing with his arms crossed, worry crinkling his usually open face. ‘Stormy up there. Drogo’s never really been… good, at handling boats.’

He shut his eyes tightly as he realised. _Wasn’t._ **_Wasn’t_** _really good at handling boats._

_Oh, damn._

*

Bilbo wakes up – and jerks quite suddenly upright – when they’re half an hour away, Bofur snoring next to him. Fili – the only other one awake (fortunate as it’s his turn to drive) - watches him in the mirror, takes note of how his colleague, normally one of the most tired and grumpiest workers in the company office in the mornings before he’s got a cup of tea in his hand and at least two pastries in his belly, snaps himself out of sleep in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, he’s bright-eyed. Alert.

‘Where are we?’ he asks – no, demands – and Fili understands.

‘Nearly there.’

Bilbo nods, runs his hand over slight stubble on his chin and looks out of the window for a few minutes. Fili lets the silence flow; doesn’t push, won’t push. Concentrates on the road, the lines gleamed white, disappearing under the wheels.

‘He’s got the same birthday as me,’ Bilbo says then, with a slight nod and Fili gets the impression it’s not that Bilbo is talking to him so much as the fact that he’s just talking at all. ‘So they made me his godfather. But, you know. Calls me his uncle.’

Fili nods, even though it’s not really needed. There’s more silence, as Bilbo watches the scenery go by.

‘We’ve shared cakes before,’ he says; thinks of strawberry jam, ice-cream and blue candles; the six-layer chocolate cake Primula surprised them with the year before last. His hands make tight fists on his knees.

~

‘I – I need to go,’ he had finally said, because he had to get there, because this had happened and he was wanted, he was being asked for, and he had to get there _right now,_ ‘I need to…’

He pulled himself to his feet, onto unsteady legs; as one, Bofur and Ori lurched forward to grab him and he shook them off. ‘I’ve got to go, now.’

‘Yes, of course, laddy…’ He was vaguely aware of Balin’s kindly words in the background, even as he found his way back to his desk, grabbing his coat, he needed his wallet, he needed to get home to pack – no, no, he needed to get to the station _immediately,_ get a train to Wales, get the next one possible – or wait, _should_ he pack first, but how long would that take -

(Behind him, Kili reached into his pocket, pulled out the car-keys, met Fili’s eyes; they nodded at each other and then turned to Bofur and Balin, who both stared at the keys, but then nodded in turn and Balin gave the brothers a quick wink.

With that, they stepped up behind their colleague, frantically packing his papers away, spilling them in his urgency; in unison, they gently cleared their throats.

‘Bilbo…’).

*

They finally pull up at the address, which turns out to be a large but cosy-looking cottage, just before midnight; although it’s late, the outside lights are all on, the driveway is lit up, and Fili could swear he briefly spies a face at the top window as he puts on the brakes. Bilbo is undoing his seatbelt even before they’ve come to a complete stop, shoving open the car door.

The front door of the cottage opens as Bilbo heads towards it and a young boy – about eight or nine, with dark, curly hair – dashes out in his pyjamas and straight into his arms. Bilbo plucks him up, right up off the ground and holds him impossibly close, kisses his cheek, cradles his head, shuts his eyes in something like silent prayer.

(Fili remembers the night their father died; he was ten, Kili was seven and all they knew - but couldn’t quite grasp - was that Dad wasn’t going to come home, that their Mum was crying and just cried harder each time they tried to hug her. Then the front door had opened and his heart had leapt – but it wasn’t Dad; it was Uncle Thorin.

… It wasn’t Dad, but it _was_ their Uncle, who gave them piggybacks, who smuggled them chocolates behind their mother’s back, who brought them swords and armour – plastic, but still brilliant – and played with them in the garden and they both ran to him, clung on tightly. He clung on right back).

Fili bows his head, pulls his phone out to send a quick text to both their Mum and Thorin, let them know they’ve arrived safely. Next to him, Kili is blinking very, very hard and Bofur’s eyes are soft and sad.

In the driveway, Bilbo rocks the most precious person in his arms and he doesn’t let him go.

~

‘Frodo,’ he had finally managed to gather enough presence of mind to snarl the question down the line at his cousin, cutting through her speech, her prattling, ‘Lobelia, _where’s Frodo?’_

*

The lady of the house, apparently another cousin of Bilbo’s – ‘Ez Took,’ she introduces herself, voice hoarse with exhaustion – is tearful but welcoming, not so much inviting but demanding that the three of them come inside and ignoring their protests, sits them all down in front of the fire in the lounge, fussing that they must all be cold and tired. Which, yes, they are, but they were all rather planning on being cold and tired somewhere a little less intrusive; namely, the Travelodge fifteen miles away.

‘S’a nice house, madam,’ Bofur offers weakly in an extremely cautious attempt at charm; Ez offers a small, dry smile under her puffy eyes and puts the kettle on, waving aside Fili’s insistences that they don’t need anything, that she mustn’t put herself out.

The little boy, Frodo, doesn’t say a single word, doesn’t smile, barely moves; simply clings onto Bilbo’s hand with all the grim determination of someone who’s hanging on to what they have and then Ez takes them both into another room, no doubt to discuss certain things. Fili, Kili and Bofur are all left to sit on the sofa, sipping tea they were too polite to refuse and really, really trying not to drift off on each other’s shoulders. It seems Frodo may not be the only child in the house; they can hear light pitter-patters on the stairs, hear whispers and there are photos on the mantle of two giggling, curly-haired boys whose grins just promise trouble.

They sit and sip and intrude on the family grief and each of them wonder how these things can happen.

~

_‘Hello?’ Bilbo had sighed, a stack of papers under one hand, phone cradled in the other – well, at least it left both hands occupied and unable to strangle that git Thorin, currently brooding away in his office and glaring at anyone who went past – and went out into the hallway to take the call in relative quiet. Honestly, it was nearly five, all Bilbo wanted was to just go home._

_‘Bil?’ Lobelia. No-one else ever called him ‘Bil’ and no-one ever dared to. Bloody woman, Bilbo thought and rolled his eyes. Probably needed another dip into the family fortune. Lobelia might be his cousin, but –_

_‘Listen,’ Lobelia said and he suddenly realised how breathless, almost bunged up she sounded, as though she had been crying, ‘there’s – there’s been an accident. It’s Drogo and Primula...’_

_She told him and he let everything – the phone, the papers, himself – drop._

*

At around six, when it’s finally getting light, they sit out on Ez’s garden bench, drinking coffee this time, Kili and Bofur sharing a sneaky cigarette (Fili shakes his head, but promises not to tell their mother or Bofur’s cousin and brother), idly watching the dew on the grass slowly starting to melt away under the rising sun. At the sound of the garden door opening, they all stand up (Bofur hastily yanking the cigarette from between Kili’s lips and stubbing it out in his almost-empty mug) to see Bilbo stepping out, looking exhausted and brittle, but grim and determined all at the same time.

‘I don’t think I’ll be back for a while,’ he tells them, arms crossed over his chest as he glances up at the house, and they nod. They understand.

*

Ez insists on making them a hearty breakfast and they agree, partly because yes, they are hungry, but mostly because she is clearly craving a distraction, something to do and so to refuse her just isn’t an option. It’s alarming, how much food seems to be available; there’s something about this family that positively screams a desire to play host. 

After they’ve eaten – and have gingerly, guiltily accepted the tub of food that Ez presses on them for the journey - they take turns hugging Bilbo, grasp his shoulder, tell him to take as long as he needs. He smiles, just slightly and nods, shakes their hands.

‘Thankyou,’ he tells them softly and accepts, with a wry chuckle, a large double hug from the brothers and then one more from Bofur, who claps his back, props his chin on his shoulder briefly.  

‘It’ll be alright, laddy,’ he murmers quietly, comfortingly. ‘You’ll see.’

There’s a brief argument over who’s driving – Bofur, in all his attempts to be the responsible adult/chaperone, insists it’s his turn as the boys should get some rest but it’s pointed out by both brothers that it’s not actually his car and if he crashes it – ‘and there’s a twenty percent chance you will,’ Kili adds, only just avoiding a swat – they’ll be completely screwed, both by the insurance company and by the wrath of their mother. Ez laughs at this, the sound small but genuine; Bilbo rolls his eyes in the background and lets them get on with it.

Finally, they get themselves sorted and Bilbo stands and watches them pull out of the driveway with an empty space in the back of the car.

At the last moment before they pull away, Frodo – red-eyed and wearing Bilbo’s jumper over his pyjamas – wanders out to his uncle’s side, slips his hand through his and silently offers a little wave just before the car disappears off into the main road.

*

Four weeks later, Bilbo returns to the office with Frodo in tow.

‘I’m going to need to talk to you about my hours,’ he tells Thorin bluntly, mouth pursed, chin up, as everyone jumps up to greet him with large smiles and outstretched hands. Frodo, plucked up into the protective authority of Bilbo’s arms, looks at them all with polite, bright-eyed curiosity, offers quiet little hellos to everyone.

He looks well-fed, well groomed, hair combed, shoes laced, all under the clear diligence of Bilbo – yet there’s something about him that looks sad; sadder than any young boy ought to be, and what none of them say, yet is so hard to believe, is that this little lad in front of them is actually an orphan. But what’s more reassuring is the way he loops an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders to keep himself in place; the way he and Bilbo look at each other with the same blue eyes, the same kind of tilting smile. There’s affection there, and security too.

(Fili and Kili both exchange a look and then glance, fondly, across at Thorin).

During the morning, Frodo sits and reads and draws quietly by Bilbo’s desk, waving to the others occasionally whenever he catches any of them glancing over and then at lunchtime, he shyly goes up to Fili’s desk with a large piece of paper in hand.

It shows a large red car (Fili and Kili’s car is actually blue, but hell, semantics and red’s a much nicer colour for a car, anyway) with four figures in it; two dark-haired and two yellow-haired, with two moustaches and a truly tremendous attempt at stubble for Kili and curls for Bilbo, driving along a grey road and red writing on one side: _To Wales,_ underlined with an arrow pointing onwards.

Underneath it says: _Thankyou for bringing me Uncle Bilbo, from Frodo. Xxx_

(Fili makes what he hopes is a subtle attempt to rub his eyes – it’s not – and then beams at Frodo and tells him it’s one of the best pictures that he’s ever seen, whistles Kili and Bofur over to have a look. They all agree that such a fine picture as this puts even the great Picasso to shame and that it should go on the staffroom wall).

*

‘I can’t move him away from his school,’ Bilbo murmurs, while Kili and Fili are keeping Frodo occupied out in the office, asking if he’ll show them how he drew such a fantastic car, ‘and he’s got family, and friends up there: Merry, Pippin, Sam. Ez is going to take care of him during term-time. For now though, he’s with me for the summer.’ He smiles, stares hard at the desk, finding Thorin’s gaze an oddly hard one to meet.

‘When he’s older,’ he says, eventually, addressing the floor, ‘and more adjusted – we’ll talk some more and if he wants – well. He’ll probably come back to live with me for good.’ He makes himself meet Thorin’s eye. ‘Or I might… move up there.’

(One of Thorin’s favourite memories of his nephews is one of the earliest: a three-year-old Fili, sturdy for his age, happily rocking a two-month old Kili in his arms, singing a garbled, tuneless lullaby while he, his sister and brother-in-law all desperately tried to smother their laughter in their hands).

‘Well,’ Thorin bends his head, makes a few mental calculations; Gloin and Dwalin are both due to start soon and it surely wouldn’t hurt for Bilbo to work from home a few days of the week, after all – if anyone has the quiet discipline for it, he certainly does. ‘I’m sure we can sort something out for you, Mr. Baggins.’

He offers him both the biscuit-tin he keeps under his desk and the first real, genuine smile he’s given since they met. Bilbo hesitantly returns it – and accepts a custard cream – before they both silently turn and watch their nephews play.

~

_Four weeks earlier:_

Some time later, after they’d gone through all the hows and the whys, through all the suddenly limited options available, Bilbo stepped out of Ez’s study, head buzzing despite his own lingering, chilly tiredness; Ez, bless her, had offered tea, coffee, soup, sandwiches, anything, in her own desperate attempts to comfort and her own need for distraction - but for once, nothing had appealed, nothing could.

He rubbed his face, his eyes as he wandered through the cottage; suddenly stopped short at the entrance to the lounge, blinking at the sight before him.

There, on the sofa, Bofur, Fili and Kili were fast asleep; Bofur leaning against the far arm and both brothers leaning against him in turn, Kili’s head on Fili’s shoulder.

He… he had forgotten they were here. They had driven him over two-hundred miles as fast as they knew how and he had forgotten them.

He felt a familiar hand slip into his and looked down at Frodo, who was staring at the three strangers in his aunt’s house with a dull kind of curiousity, even through wide, red, haunted eyes.

‘Who are they, Uncle?’ he asked finally, and Bilbo stared. Frodo’s voice was… rusty, almost, faint, but still _there._ He squeezed the hand tighter, as reassuring as he could; felt a sudden rush of empathy for his travelling companions, who dozed before him, seeking reassurance in each other’s welcome familiarity in a strange house full of mourning. But just as sudden was a simple, grateful affection for them, even in the midst of – well, all this.

‘They’re friends of mine,’ was what he decided on. Then, with a squeeze to Frodo’s shoulders as the boy rested his head against his side briefly, he shuffled up to the sofa, his nephew lingering at his hip. Quietly removed Kili’s mug, still clasped in his hands, adjusted Bofur’s precious hat with care. Tugged at the throw that Ez always kept in the lounge for cold nights and carefully spread it over the three of them.

Then he put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders, bent to kiss his head briefly before taking him out of the room, hoping to persuade him to have a rest as well, while he figured out what to do whatever he _could_ do next. Casting a last glance at Bofur, Fili and Kili, he hummed a little before turning off the main light.

(They would wake up around five in the morning; all would be startled and embarrassed, all would give endless, needless apologies and Fili would spend five minutes kicking himself that he’d let them fall asleep at all.

Fact was – it didn’t matter; fact was, they were there).

*

They make it work. It’s not easy – but they do.

*

 


End file.
